


something more than

by waveridden



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Chicago Firefighters (Blaseball Team), Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 22:47:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29658471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveridden/pseuds/waveridden
Summary: “I’m rust-proof and fireproof.”“Waterproof?”Kennedy pauses, just for a beat. “Maybe.”Or: Kennedy Rodgers learns to swim.
Relationships: Swamuel Mora & Wesley Poole & Kennedy Rodgers, Wesley Poole & Kennedy Rodgers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 18





	something more than

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waltztangocache](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waltztangocache/gifts).



> For Hen, because I love how much they love the Firefighters, and because they introduced me to Kennedy Rodgers whom I would die for. Title is from [Fever Dream](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Owvji3p7kB0) by mxmtoon.
> 
> CWs: Kennedy is a robot who modifies his own body, so there's discussion of him adding and removing body parts. Also: referenced incineration, and a teensy bit of recreational drug use.

The day that Kennedy joins the Firefighters is the same day Declan gets his jacket.

It’s probably an overstep, but Kennedy can’t bring themself to care: as soon as Declan’s distracted they take the jacket and rip off a patch of fabric, just a little bit at the already-frayed collar. They don’t have a workshop set up in Chicago yet. They’re still trying to orient themself in this new city, trying to say goodbye to the Wings, trying to adjust to the idea of being not just a Firefighter but a firefighter. But it seems important to have a piece of, just in case.

Ken forgets about the jacket until after José… well, until after José. That night they spend hours examining the scrap of jacket, trying to see what’s special about it. It looks like an ordinary piece of fabric, but there has to be something special about it. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise.

He knows better than to assume there’s such a thing as safety in blaseball. Even if there were a clear type of fireproofing, something he could reverse-engineer, he has no faith that it would work. But at least he could try.

And he does try. It’s not just because of incineration, it’s also because he literally fights fires sometimes. He wants to know how to avoid getting burned, or melted, or whatever would happen to him. The jacket is a dead-end, but they keep trying.

Kennedy can replace bits of their body, swap out arms and legs the way most people change clothes. Every single limb has been coated in a dozen sealants. There are new alloys plating most of them, different combinations for different purposes.

What this means is that he is, in the most technical sense of the word, fireproof. He doubts it would matter in the face of incineration, but it feels better to try, at least.

  
  


#

  
  


The grand siesta is frightening. At first it’s thrilling to have time to tinker and work, time to avoid playing blaseball outside of the occasional practice or pickup game between teams. Kennedy visits the Wings, and they visit Sosa in Houston, and they go on team outings.

But the special occasions trail off, and the loss of structure is hard. With blaseball there was a routine; with the siesta there is nothing but their own plans. Kennedy can plan all they want but nobody else plans alongside them, and it’s — hard. It’s harder than a vacation should be.

Everyone else is dedicated to relaxing, but Ken relaxes into the routine, into the work. It’s hard to find the rhythm, but eventually they find a pattern that works for them. There are shifts as a firefighter, a simple constant to organize around. And they work in their workshop, building themself, as much as possible.

“What can you make, exactly?” Justice asks one day. She visits his workshop the most out of anyone. Kennedy thinks it’s because they’re both inorganic, or something along those lines.

“Whatever I’d like.” They pause. “Within reason.”

“Like what?”

“I have heads that are helmets so I don’t have to wear one while I’m working.”

She nods. “That’s all?”

“Most of what I do is different shapes.” Ken motions at a rack of clockwork feet, not yet put away. “They have different functions.”

“Do you rust?”

“I’m rust-proof and fireproof.”

“Waterproof?”

Kennedy pauses, just for a beat. They’ve never tested that in any meaningful way. He can get wet, of course, that kind of thing happens, but that’s different from being waterproof.

Justice is still looking at him. He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” she repeats. “Alright then.”

They watch him work in silence before wandering away, seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds after the conversation ends. It should be easier to work alone. Today’s project is trying to strengthen the wrists on certain arms, something that’s important to get done, but he’s more distracted by himself.

Waterproofing. It seems so obvious now, something that’s not just important but fun. Kennedy’s never gone swimming. They never even considered it.

New project, he decides. Something else to fill the time.

  
  


#

  
  


Step one is testing what’s possible right now, so Kennedy goes down to Lake Michigan and wades in, calf-deep. Today’s legs are new-ish but not brand new, so if this breaks bad it’ll be a small loss. He even has backups that he leaves on the shore.

After five minutes and thirty-six seconds, there’s a disturbance in the water. Kennedy looks down as Poole pops out of the water. They don’t fully emerge, instead swimming over to a nearby rock and leaning against it, looking up curiously.

Ken points down to their feet. “I’m trying to see if I’m waterproof.”

Poole’s brows furrow. Their mouth twists into a curious expression, just enough for the sharp edges of their teeth to peek through. Kennedy knows that the rest of the team is disturbed by the teeth, but it’s never bothered them. No more than the blunt teeth of any of the humans, at least.

“I’ve never tested it before,” he explains. “This is science.”

Poole quirks an eyebrow. They don’t say anything, but Ken can sense the sardonic tone to it. They shrug. “It’s an experiment.”

Poole doesn’t answer, but they don’t leave either, so the experiment marches on. At the ten minute mark, Ken can still move their feet. Three minutes and nineteen seconds after that the gears in their left ankle stop turning, and their foot is stuck flexed.

They lift their dripping foot out of the water and tap it against their opposite calf. No luck. It’s fully stuck in place.

“Experimenting,” they repeat tonelessly, and to their surprise Wes laughs. It’s quick, just an instant of open mouth and musical noise, but it’s still good to hear.

His other foot stops working ninety seconds later, so he makes his way towards his backups. It’s a terrible process, walking through water with unbending feet. He makes it a quarter of the way there before slipping and crashing into the lake, a problem he absolutely didn’t plan for. Broken feet is one thing, but a broken body is another.

Except Wes is there in a flash, scooping Kennedy up in his arms. Kennedy’s too surprised to say anything as Wes carries him out of the water and deposits him on shore with a surprising smoothness. Wes is only out of the water for sixteen seconds, by Kennedy’s count, before they slip back into the lake, lingering ankle-deep into the shallows.

“Thank you,” Kennedy says, surprised. Poole just nods, so Kennedy goes about the process of detaching their feet at the ankles and putting on the backups. It’s arduous, sitting on the lakeshore instead of in a workshop, but it’s worth it.

“Does it hurt?” Wes says, so suddenly that Ken’s not even sure they said it at first. But when they turn, Poole’s eyes are fixed on them, brows furrowed again.

“Not exactly,” Kennedy says. They poke at some of the exposed gears of their left ankle, not quite in proper place again. “I can feel it, and I can feel electricity sometimes, but it’s not painful.”

Wes nods. They wave, a quick flick of the fingers, and dive back into the water.

  
  


#

  
  


A pattern, one that forms easily:

Some days they work as a firefighter, listening for the call. Those days have their own rhythm. Kennedy prefers the night shift — not because things are easier at night, and not because they don’t have to sleep, because rest still does a robotic body good. No, the night shifts are better because everybody else prefers to sleep through the night, and they enjoy being able to take this burden and let them rest.

Most days, Ken wakes up and follows a schedule. Morning check-up, making sure nothing jammed overnight. Team breakfast that they neither eat nor cook. A morning in the workshop. An afternoon out of the workshop, a pattern unto itself: exploring Chicago with a teammate, exploring Chicago alone, visiting the lake. A late evening in the workshop. And then sleep, or something like it. Quiet. Stasis. Time not to think.

They think anyways, naturally. But it’s nice to imagine that it’s restful.

He makes two dozen extra pairs of feet to test out. The first pair with waterproofing lasts thirty minutes. The second pair lasts seventeen. The third set of feet lasts for eighty-one minutes, which Kennedy spends tossing a blaseball back and forth with Wes, before the metal disintegrates entirely, leaving them completely unable to walk.

“Feels like a step backwards,” Wes says wryly. He’s sitting on the shore with Kennedy and has been there for six minutes and seventeen seconds now, a new record.

“Negative results are still results,” Kennedy answers. “I know something now that I didn’t before.”

“What’s that?”

Ken shoots him a look. “I shouldn’t use that sealant again.”

Wes laughs, surprised. Normally he tries to keep his mouth closed, but this one is a full laugh, head tipped back, teeth flashing in the afternoon sunlight. Kennedy tilts his head and watches and tries to convey a smile through the set of his shoulders.

The routine does not bring him back to the lakeshore for three more days. But he considers going back every day in between.

  
  


#

  
  


It is the morning after an overnight shift, one of the rare times that Ken has nothing planned, when Swamuel Mora comes to visit. It is the third time this has ever happened: once after Jose, and once in between seasons just to say hello.

They don’t say anything at first, not beyond asking if they can sit and watch Kennedy work. Ken just nods, still focused on the foot plating in front of them. They realized recently that with two feet they can run twice as many experiments at once. The left foot has a variation on an alloy, and they’re trying to use a miniature laser to carve patterns into the right, just to see if that changes anything.

“Poole said you’ve been visiting them,” Swam says suddenly, after twenty-nine and a half minutes of silence.

Kennedy barely avoids gouging the foot with the laser. He doesn’t surprise easily, but even if he hadn’t forgotten that Swam was in the room, he’s surprised by what they’re saying. “I’ve been going to the lake.”

“To visit them.”

“To try and waterproof myself.”

“You could do that in a bathtub.”

“That’s a controlled environment. I prefer to make sure it stands up to the realities of the weather.”

“Poole said they talk to you,” Swam says, and that’s enough to give Kennedy pause. They don’t have rollicking conversations, exactly; most of the visits are short, and the ones that aren’t are mostly spent pitching balls at one another.

But Wes has been talking to him more. Slowly, visit by visit, going from a sentence at a time to two or three. Kennedy has always known that Wes doesn’t speak much, but it never occurred to them that this would be significant.

Swam’s watching them closely. Kennedy says, “They’re a good friend.”

He’s not sure what about that makes Swam relax but they do, visibly. “You go on a schedule, right?” Kennedy nods, unsure of where this is going, and Swam says, “Can I go with you?”

Kennedy thinks about it. They’re going to the lake this afternoon, and this is too much disruption, but. “Next time.”

Swam just nods, like they expected it. “Next time,” he repeats, easy as anything.

  
  


#

  
  


The laser cutting is effective — more than Kennedy was expecting, actually. He spends the next three days refining it, going through half a dozen foot models to test out different designs. When he and Swam go to the lake it’s with enough prototypes to last a full day, if the tests go well.

As soon as they get to the lakeshore, Swam hops in, easy as anything. “Hi, Poole,” he calls, and off in the distance Wes’s head pops out of the water, blue hair like a beacon. Swam dips into the water smoothly, and just under two minutes later Ken can see the surface break as his head pops up.

They feel a twinge of something like jealousy. They can’t just jump into the water like that — not yet, at least. And they’ve never thought to greet Wes first. Maybe they should, next time. It seems polite.

He wades into the water, ankle deep as always, and waits. After six minutes and twelve seconds, Wes and Swam come back, flanking Kennedy’s either side. “You just wait?” Swam asks.

“Mostly,” Kennedy answers. “Sometimes we play catch.”

“Have you ever considered bringing a book or something?”

“This is enough for me.”

Swam and Wes exchange a skeptical look, and Kennedy understands, suddenly. It’s easier to read both of them like this, in concert with one another. He can translate this more easily. Like they put each other in context. He wonders if they feel the same about him.

“Or,” he says, and it feels uncomfortable, a body part connected wrong, an uncertainty where there shouldn’t be. “We could… spend time together.”

“We already are,” Wes points out, and Kennedy abruptly feels foolish. Of course they are.

“I’m going to bring an audiobook next time,” Swam mutters. Kennedy exchanges a look with Wes, on instinct. They’re gratified to see him already looking back, eyebrow arched. It feels… natural. It feels right.

  
  


#

  
  


The pattern changes, but slowly, with warning. Swam comes to the lake every other time, a rhythm on its own. When they start coming every single time, they ask first, a conversation that involves all three of them. Kennedy knows it’s mostly for their benefit. They appreciate the effort all the same.

And so the experiments continue, sealants and laser-cutting, games of catch, team gossip and audiobooks. It’s a steady rhythm, even though the waterproofing isn’t getting any easier.

Until, one day:

“We got you something,” Swam says.

Kennedy looks at them, then at Wes, who’s climbing out of the water — a special occasion, then. “What is it?”

Wes goes behind a rock and comes out with something made of rubber. There’s a full helmet, too, massive and transparent. “Wetsuit,” they say, pleased.

It takes eight seconds for Kennedy to understand. They’re not sure how much longer it takes for them to speak again. “For me?”

“You’ve been working hard,” Swam says. “We thought you deserved a break. Or an incentive or something.”

“I’ve never been swimming before.”

“We’ll be there with you the whole time,” Swam promises. Wes nods, resolutely.

Kennedy can’t cry, but they think they would if they could, right now. “Okay,” they say. “Let’s try.”

The suit is cumbersome, too heavy. It reminds them of the reasons they designed their own firefighting gear: easier for the body itself to be heavy than for something heavy to be on the body. But they pull it on and then stand in the shallows of the lake.

“You can go deeper,” Swam says encouragingly.

Kennedy has never gone further than ankle-deep in the water. They stand, uncertain. The suit might not be airtight. They might not be able to keep themself afloat. They might just be too heavy to swim, and this could all be for nothing. They have been standing still for three minutes and— and they’re not sure of the seconds, which is worse, somehow.

“Ken,” a voice says, and then Wes’s hand is at their elbow. “Come on. One step.” Wes takes a cartoonishly dramatic step forward, and Kennedy mimics it. The corners of Wes’s mouth tick up, and he takes another step, and Kennedy follows.

Walking through water feels different. Kennedy wishes they had a notebook or a recorder or something, a way to quantify and process the sensation. There’s resistance, not enough to pose a problem but enough that it feels strange. They’re up to their knees, then hips, then chest, then shoulders, standing at the precipice of having to swim.

“You can duck your head under like this,” Swam suggests. “So that way you don’t have to swim or tread water. You can just see.”

“I’m worried about the helmet,” Kennedy admits. It should be embarrassing. It should feel bad to say.

Swam and Wes just look at one another. And then, by some silent agreement, Wes’s hand winds more firmly around Ken’s arm, and Swam takes his other elbow. “On three, we all go under. Ready?”

Kennedy is not ready. “Yes,” he says anyways.

“One, two, three—”

Swam and Wes go under easily. Kennedy bends over awkwardly, but it doesn’t take much bending before their head is underwater.

The colors are different. It feels inane to notice that, but it’s about the only thing that Ken can wrap their head around at first. Observing physics underwater is different than being underwater. Everything feels surreal. They wonder if this is what dreaming is.

To one side, Swammy makes a pleased noise. Kennedy looks at them, and they give a thumbs up. They turn to their other side and Wes waves, hair floating around them in a fluorescent halo.

Both of them look like they belong here. The water suits them. It doesn’t suit Kennedy. They feel unwieldy, unnatural. The suit could leak, and then they’ll be stuck at the bottom of the lake, decaying.

Except they won’t be. Swam and Wes would carry them to shore and call the team. It is a certainty, something to rely on. They don’t have to worry. They can just look at the seaweed and sand and the water itself.

In front of them, some feet away, a school of fish swims past. Kennedy laughs, surprised and delighted — they’re close enough to touch, if he wanted, because he’s in the lake, he’s _in the lake_ — and he can hear Swam and Wes laughing with him.

  
  


#

  
  


They stay for hours. Kennedy learns to tread water, a process that takes all day. Swamuel jokes about swimming lessons, but Kennedy is serious when they say yes.

At the end of the night they all end up on the lakeshore together. Ken does maintenance on their feet, more out of habit than because of any problems. Wes orders food, something for himself and Swam, and the two of them pass a joint back and forth while they wait for the delivery.

“You had fun?” Wes asks suddenly.

“Yes,” Kennedy says. “I did. Thank you.”

Wes smiles — not the same close-lipped thing as normal, but a real smile that lasts longer than an instant. Swam nudges Kennedy’s shoulder, as though they need to be told that this is a big deal. Ken wishes more than anything he could smile back. Maybe that’s next on the list.

Actually, maybe that is the list. Waterproofing seems less important than smiling back.

“Thanks,” Ken says again, out of a helpless desire to explain what they’re feeling. Swammy just pats their leg, and Wes gives them a thumbs up. Ken’s sure that means they understand.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @waveridden on Tumblr and Twitter, come say hi!


End file.
